


Toss One Off On Your Witcher

by Elle of Gray (Elle_Gray)



Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: Exhibitionism, F/M, Female Empowerment, Fingering, He's in jail now though, M/M, Masturbation, Pansexual Jaskier, Penis In Vagina Sex, Post-Monster Hunt, Suggestion of Monster being a sexual predator, Women taking their destiny by the dick, mentions of sexual harrassment, vouyeurism, wanking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-16
Updated: 2020-02-16
Packaged: 2021-02-27 19:20:26
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,431
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22750876
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Elle_Gray/pseuds/Elle%20of%20Gray
Summary: The night after a successful hunt, Geralt has attracted some female attention, and Jaskier is stuck in the hayloft above them, trying to figure out if he's allowed to watch. And trying really hard to not touch himself.So intent is he, that he fails to react to the movement below. The raising of an eyebrow, the tilt of a chin, the tip of Geralt's head, back far enough to meet Jaskier's eyes where he stands by the railing at the edge of the hayloft, looking down to the floor of the barn. With his cock in his fist.Their eyes meet.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 43
Kudos: 411





	Toss One Off On Your Witcher

It's been a weird one, this hunt, wrapped in town politics and intrigue — excellent fodder for Jaskier’s lyrical muse. He’d been getting bored. There are only so many available words one can weave into verses about violence of the same sort. Hacking, slashing, smashing, a little stabbing. Maybe a beheading or two, or a bludgeoning. But then, not much rhymes with bludgeoning.

He can’t quite ignore the fact it's been less palatable for Geralt, though. He's been quieter than usual, contemplative. Jaskier’s pretty sure he's just annoyed it wasn't more straight forward; this one had had too many  _ people _ for the witcher. He likes the simple ones: turn up, kill the monster, collect the coin. 

They've retired for the night, the hunt over and their "monster" locked away somewhere in town. (Sometimes Geralt is correct — humans are the real monsters). One particularly grateful farm wife had insisted they have the run of her barn, rather than pay for rooms, and she'd furnished them with a meal, a large jug of decent ale, and a pile of blankets to rival a cloud for comfort.

There're only horses in there with them, and it's clean and well built, so there are no nasty smells to wrinkle their noses or draughty cracks to cool the tepid spring air. The loft is dry and comfortable, and they're both reclined on beds of hay and woven wool, roughly hewn pottery cups in hand, sipping quietly as Jaskier mulls over lyrics in his head. They've been mostly divested of their clothes, the promise of having them all — even what was rumpled and stale in their packs — washed and dry by morning, too good to pass up. Jaskier has adopted an old nightshirt from the late farmer himself. It swims on his lean frame a little, but still hadn’t been quite generous enough to fit around Geralt's muscled bulk. He's only in a towel, chest bared and smelling sweetly of rosemary. Jaskier is half-tempted to have the farmwife adopt him, she'd been taking such good care of them both: clean clothes, scented baths, freshly made scones to go with the meaty stew, and homebrewed ale that outshone most taverns.

But then, the second there was word that Geralt was onto something interesting, he'd only get restless and want to leave again. Maybe he could bargain with her for a horse instead and not have to walk alongside Roach anymore. Not that he liked riding that much — the horses back home never took to him — but it was probably less sweaty than traipsing. He'd be able to carry more clothes, too, which would mean clean ones more often, and that would be nice.

Very rarely does he miss the nice house he grew up in, but there are still things that make his smile dull with longing when he thinks of them. Like the potential size of one's wardrobe when one doesn’t have to carry their life in a bag. At least with a horse and a proper set of panniers, he could fit in some more clean undergarments. And snacks. Geralt isn't one for snacking.

Jaskier looks down at himself, pulling the baggy nightshirt against his torso. The too-big neck dips lower and reveals a deep vee of dark chest hair. He's lost weight this last year, following Geralt around. Walking everywhere and being forced to consider bread a luxury only a proper town could afford him. On the road they eat meat, primarily, supplemented by stolen and scavenged vegetables and wild, gnarled fruit. He's developed the ability to handle the tartest of apples — even managed to eat a couple of lemons one time when they'd been short of plant matter and he'd worried about the effect on his bowel in consuming only rabbits.

Pears are his favourite, though they’re scarce and never last very long, even if he tries to pace himself. Apples are standard fare, though, and it’s always nice to share with Roach, who'll mouth the cores out of his palm with her velvety lips and nudge him gently for more. Geralt says he spoils her, but Jaskier reckons she probably deserves it for putting up with having to carry around a 200-pound, grumpy tree-trunk of a man every day. Lord knows Jaskier has trouble, himself, sometimes, tolerating Geralt's moods. If not for the aesthetic of the whole thing, he might've bowed out already.

"What are you doing?"

Jaskier looks down at his own hand, still tugging the thin cotton against his body, and then up at Geralt, the witcher's eyebrow cocked and an odd frown to his mouth.

"I've lost weight," Jaskier says, and releases his hand, rearranging the swathe of fabric so it doesn’t look quite so much like he’s trying to bare himself. He doesn't blush. Or at least he tries not to. "All this walking around."

"You're welcome to stay in any town you like." Geralt turns his head up to the ceiling again.

"And miss out on your delightful company?” Jaskier mocks. “Never. I merely need to arrange myself a horse before I waste away to nothing but bones."

Jaskier's mother had always fed him too much as a child, and he’d been doomed to a softness around his middle until the day he’d forcibly untangled her apron strings and made off into the world. Something of her fear of being underweight still niggles at him — though perhaps it’s more the presence of the witcher, this time, and his thickly muscled frame that makes Jaskier wary of his own physique. Makes him overly conscious, really, of both of them — the difference — a contrast of man and mountain.

The mountain grunts beside him. "You're hardly bones."

"Geralt, a compliment?' Jaskier tries to not let it permeate too far under his skin. “I shall treasure it and cast it into song." Sarcasm will keep him sane.

"Bone _ head _ , maybe."

"Ah, yes. There we go, the backhand.” Jaskier feels a tiny part of him wither, while another delights in the banter. That’s new, still. “So. How do I get myself a horse?"

"Maybe trade your bone for one?"

The banter might be rare, but the dirty jokes are rarer, still. Especially ones that refer to Jaskier directly, and to his cock, almost never.

"Another compliment? That a night with me might be worthy of a permanent ride? Are you feeling alright?"

"You never said you wanted a  _ good _ horse." Geralt smirks at his own joke, eyes still trained on the ceiling and Jaskier is free to stare at his mouth in the flickering candlelight, unseen.

It makes him bold, being unobserved, and the urge to declare himself a competent lover is strong. The ale, too, must be strong, because his mouth runs away with his urge, and he hasn't the self-preservation to stop it.

"I'll have you know—" he starts, before he's interrupted, perhaps fortunately, by a squeak and the shudder of wood, far below. He twists in his bed and sees the tall barn door opening to the dark night, a slight figure appearing in the slice of black.

Geralt growls in irritation and puts down his cup. With light feet belying his bulk, he rolls up and moves across the hayloft, taking up his sword and silently descending the stairs. Jaskier wonders at him doing so in just his towel but if a child needs scaring off back inside the farmhouse, that'll do it; if a tiny monster needs slaying, swiftness is probably more important than dressing appropriately. He wriggles to the edge of the hayloft and peers between the slats of the railing.

Geralt comes into view just as the small figure slips inside, another close behind, holding a lamp that lights their faces. Neither could be considered a child, or a monster. Unless there’s a beast that looks exactly like a young woman in a diaphanous nightgown (and maybe there is, but Jaskier doesn’t know of it). The reality of Geralt standing there in the dim light in almost nothing, smelling deliciously of rosemary and ale, long, shining sword in hand, takes on a new significance.

Jaskier draws a quiet breath and his heart beats hard. He wonders if this is going to be something he wants to see play out or not. The second girl, who must be in her early twenties, closes the door and slides the lock across. Jaskier realises that, one: he might not have a choice, and two: the throb of his cock might mean that, yes, he does. Despite his single-minded affection for the witcher, he's become accustomed to women touching him. Usually, though, it's far out of sight. Jaskier has never had to face his own morbid curiosity before now. (Turns out it's filth, just like his usual curiosity.)

He hears Geralt's sigh, as he, too, realises what's going on, and the throaty "Fuck", that follows. The girls — grown women, really — pad closer, coy expressions laced with curious interest.

"So,” one of them says, holding the lamp up and letting her eyes wander. “You're the witcher."

Jaskier sees Geralt tense, his sword arm twitching in irritation. Maybe there won't be a show after all, maybe he'll just growl at them and send them on their way.

"We owe you a thank you," the other says, toying with the pale fabric of her nightgown, her voice is a lilting promise. "How would you like us to give it to you?"

"From the other side of the door."

She laughs. "You don't like women?"

The girl with the lamp smirks with satisfaction, her impish face cast almost demonic in the hard light. "That would explain the bard, Cissa. I told you."

Jaskier's heart purrs. The idea that people might see them and wonder, fills him with hope, even if it might just be him they're seeing. His own adoration, his own longing looks, his own incessant and unstoppable babbling when Geralt is near.

"Your words are enough. Go back to the house." Geralt turns to go, to come back upstairs, and Jaskier sees the sisters' eyes drop to what he knows is a remarkable arse covered in very thin cotton.

"But our mouths are capable of so much more…" says the one with the lamp, Cissa. "Seems a shame to pass on that, doesn't it? I imagine it's quite lonely being a witcher."

Geralt pauses, just out of sight under the overhang of the hayloft. Jaskier listens for him to say something else, to growl, to ignore them and come upstairs. He doesn't know which of those he wants. He's not sure if Geralt would allow anything to happen, knowing he has an audience. He's been discreet in his intimacies, this past year of their acquaintance. Jaskier knows he likes women, doesn't mind paying them for company, but he's never flaunted it or talked about it. Never talked about men either, and while Jaskier has seen him look sometimes, it's always felt like a curious sort of gaze rather than predatory.

His own gaze, when it comes to Geralt, has always been… well. Less than innocent, despite his efforts to make it appear so. He's pretty sure he's kept his appreciation hidden, though. Geralt probably doesn't look directly at him enough to have noticed that his eyes might linger, or his jaw might slacken slightly at the sight of him, dripping wet as he hauls himself out of a river or somesuch. It's inspired ballads he can absolutely not sing anywhere on the Continent, but that lie fully-formed in his notebook, never to see the light of a tavern.

"I manage," Geralt says.

"Please?" the other girl says. "We—"

"Shush, Marta," Cissa hisses, and the lamp swings from her fingers. Her tone has lost it's playful shine, the turn in conversation drawing Jaskier further in. What could two young women have to say that might be worth disagreeing with a witcher for? Even if he is practically naked?

"No, I want to tell him." Marta turns back to Geralt, his presence barely a shadow from Jaskier's viewpoint high above. "The man you captured, the doppel. He tried to attack us, once."

"He did attack us," Cissa mutters, glaring at the floor.

"Yes, but, it wasn't—' Marta turns back to her sister, pleading look on her pretty face. "It wasn't as bad as it could've been. I mean, it was scary and everything, but he didn't—"

Geralt steps forward into the soft glow of the lantern. "What are you saying?"

Marta takes a deep breath. "We don't want to be afraid anymore. Of men. Of going outside. Walking into town." She takes a breath, as if she's waiting for Geralt to stop her, tell her she's wrong, that she's asking too much. He doesn't, no matter how long she waits, so she continues: "We’ve been basically held captive for a year, while the doppel was out there. Our brothers, our uncle, they used our sex to keep us in the house, mending their clothes and cooking their meals and all the while they were off doing whatever they pleased. They said we needed to be kept safe, protected because we were girls. That women were weak and vulnerable." Her gaze skitters over to her sister, nervous in the midst of her anger. "I'm tired of it. It's not fair."

Geralt lets out a sound that could be construed as sympathetic. "And what do you want me to do?"

"I want to feel like  _ I _ own my body again, not them — or something worse, something nameless. Some villain in the street who can't keep his hands to himself."

"It sounds like you'd do better learning how to fight."

"We know how to fend off an unwanted suitor. That's not it." 

Cissa has been quiet but speaks up now, perhaps seeing the lack of trouble her sister's outburst has brought.

"Our problem," she says, "is patriarchal tradition. Our brothers are going to try and marry us off now the danger has passed. With the curfew lifted, there'll be courting again and they'll find themselves wives and have no use for us. They'll probably give us to whoever owns the best pigs or turnips or something."

She shares a look with her sister. A nod.

"We don't want to give some old pig-man anything, and we don’t want it taken from us," Marta says and she steps closer. "We'd rather give it to you."

Geralt growls. "That's not a good idea."

"But it's  _ our _ idea, and that matters. It counts for something, doesn't it — being able to make a choice?" Marta's gaze is hard, and Jaskier feels himself quell from it even at his distance.

"Yes." Geralt sounds… annoyed. Resigned. Like he wants to not allow it, but really, how could he?

"Then," Cissa steps in beside her sister, head cocked to the side. "Let us?"

"Hmm." 

Geralt stands there for a moment, under twin gazes of entreaty. Jaskier is on tenterhooks, waiting for a response. There's no precedent for this — fighting evil with intimacy. Fucking for justice.

Eventually he turns and Jaskier's heart skips a beat, only to see him reach into the shadow and lean his sword against a pole. Jaskier's gut drops through the floor of the hayloft. What is he about to see? Will Geralt tell him to leave? Will he have to wait outside half the night? Will he be asked to join in? What if the sisters don't want him there? What if, in their eyes, a bard is no better than a turnip farmer?

Marta holds out a hand and Geralt steps away from the shadows of the hayloft, coming into full view. She wraps her small, delicate hand around his tough, meaty one, and draws him over to a pile of fresh hay, baled and waiting to be dragged into the paddock for breakfast. Convenient — for them and for Jaskier. He'll be able to see them, and all they get up to, very clearly from above, and with the lantern burning bright and ruining their night vision, he'll remain in relative darkness. He licks his fingers and kills the candle just in case.

And apparently an unseen audience isn't enough to dissuade Geralt from doing his bit for humanity tonight. He lets himself be pushed down onto his back, towel riding up and arms spread wide, welcoming. Maybe he's forgotten Jaskier is there and can see them. Or… hasn't forgotten and likes the idea of being watched.

Technically, Jaskier has been watching him for a year, analysing his every action and putting it to song (though, of course, sometimes from the safety of an inn and relying only on second hand sources). So maybe this is more of that. The… letting him watch? It still sounds a little more than friendly, and Jaskier wonders if maybe he’s meant to sneak out of the barn now, or cover his ears or hide under a blanket. There’s no way to ask, and even if there was he'd only be risking drawing attention to himself, which, considering the warmth pooling in his groin at the scene below, might not be a sensible idea. Certain parts of himself are about to make a bit of a spectacle of themselves and become impossible to hide, even in the baggiest of nightshirts.

He probably shouldn't stare though. Right?

Jaskier pulls himself away from the railing and back into his bed, the rough slide of wool vibrant on his thighs as he shifts under the blankets again. The clash of hazy ale and swimming lust making his body vibrate with unknown need. He can just lie here and wait it out though, can't he? If it’s just chemical? He’s capable of that. And then if Geralt asks, he can tell the truth, that he hadn't really paid attention to what had gone on downstairs, and then ask if he'd had a nice time. He won't have to mention his own cock's behaviour at all. Especially if he manages to keep his hands off it. Geralt will be able to smell it if he can’t, no matter how the barn might fill with the scent of women, their delicate musk wrapping around the smells of horse and hay like some sort of wicked enchantment.

So he lies there. And he props up his head on a pillow and sips his ale, silently. Careful to place his cup on the wooden floorboards without making a sound. Refusing to wriggle on his bed too much, lest the rustling carry. Not letting himself touch, or think, or even stretch out in a way that might prove pleasing for his tired muscles.

And below, the soft gasps of women, their hushed voices back and forth, their giggles and the smack of lips and the indecent suck of spit and pleasure. He can hear kisses. He envies them that. A man can take care of everything else himself, but kissing… that’s something you need another person for. Someone nice — at least sometimes — who likes you a bit, perhaps. Maybe. Someone who’ll take their time to start with, ease into it. Kiss softly, at first. Until maybe something overcomes them and they press harder, pulling you closer, fingers digging into your hips, monstrous hands palming greedily at your arse, lifting you up and pinning you to the wall so your bodies meld together under the pressure of his weight.

Jaskier bites his lip and tries to think of something else. The sharp pinch of his teeth does nothing to dissuade his heart from beating harder, or his ears from straining for a sound from below that might just mean… Not that he would look. It wasn't what a friend would do. Was it? Well. Maybe it's what a friend who wasn't  _ so inclined _ might do. Just to observe the women, look upon their bodies and admire them. Think about the soft skin and the strong curves, the encapsulating grip of their thighs, the silk of their hair, the clean taste of their throat under your tongue. Maybe a friend who loved only women would even go down there, drawn in by the numbers, figuring for them to have one each, be fair, instead of letting Geralt have both of them. Just walk boldly down the stairs, shirt off and cock out, and no fear of accidentally looking at the man there, under that tangle of women.

Not looking at his skin, scarred and haired, or at  _ his _ strong curves, the bulges of his arms catching the lamplight, the length of his legs impossible in the dimness, and the thoughts begging in his head to be between them, wrapped in the heat and grip of his thighs. Not imagining pushing fingers into the coarse mane of his hair, or burrowing tight against the warmth of his neck, his shoulder, the scrape of stubble against his cheek, the smell of him — of hard work and worry and rosemary and hops. Maybe he'd miss how he usually smells slightly of leather, and horse, of woodsmoke and roast meat and on some days, honestly, monstrous viscera.

No. Jaskier can't imagine himself capable of walking down there and not making a spectacle of himself, not making it painfully obvious who it is he's hardened for, who it is dominating his thoughts. Now and for the year passed, if he's completely honest with himself (and he usually is). It would be like pulling out his notebook and singing the songs he can't sing, just to Geralt, staring at him as he recounts tales of his conquests and Jaskier's own wish to be one of those conquests himself.

So he won't go down there. Geralt would know.

He glances at his lap as he lifts his cup again, and realises, perhaps, that he'll know anyway. Because, well. Even under the blankets, his erect cock still makes a hell of a lump. Wouldn't it be lucky if the best way around was through? Not chaste avoidance or denial of just how ridiculously sexy this whole thing is, but just… being a bit real about it. This is happening, he’s obviously turned on by it all, so why shouldn't he just deal with it in a normal way. And if the witcher smells it when he comes upstairs, he’ll understand and won't even mention it.

If it were happening in another room, even one of those inns with walls so thin they could hold conversations through them, then he'd not think twice about indulging himself. He'd just put down his cup and grab a hanky and go for it; see how long he could drag it out. Or the opposite — see how many times he could get himself off before the witcher blew his top. 

So why shouldn’t he do that here, with a floor between them? 

It makes him think about the fact they've both already heard each other with paid (or not, in Jaskier's case) companionship. It makes this seem less weird. In fact, if Jaskier closes his eyes and imagines one of the girls below creeping away from Geralt with a wink and a smile and appearing here, at the top of the stairs… In a scenario where they both had companions, it would be expected that they'd both reach those earthly highs. So why should Jaskier have to abstain merely because Geralt’s managed to attract companions and Jaskier hasn’t?

Not that he had a chance, full disclosure was not attained. Geralt never said he wasn't alone. Though, where else would Jaskier be if not right here? He couldn't assume either woman was so completely naive to assume he wasn't present. He wonders if they’d mind him enjoying himself on the periphery. The giggling has all but stopped, and the gentle mewling has begun. Why would either of them care what Jaskier’s doing while they’re being gently deflowered?

If indeed… well, technically, without visual confirmation, they could be doing anything, really. Maybe they’re just giving Geralt a well-deserved back massage. Lord knows it might put him in a better mood. They could be moaning gently at the hardness of his muscles under their poor, tired fingers.

He should really check.

The thrill of acquiescence tingles through his bones, even as he tries to cling to reason. He probably  _ shouldn't _ check, he might be heard, or seen; it might ruin things for them downstairs, or him up here, or both. If he gets told off he certainly won't be needing a hanky. Well... problem solved either way. He rolls out from under the blankets and crouches on the floor. Listens. No change, no vivid exclamations, no frightened 'what's that?' Is he really doing this? Spying on his friend having sex? His 80 year old friend he sort of has a crush on? The one who seems so painfully emotionless as to quash the worst of Jaskier's lust, but not quite all of it?

Lord, this is going to make it worse, isn't it?

His ankle starts to twitch like it wants to cramp and there's no way he'll be able to stay silent through that, so he pushes up from the floor and holds his arms out for balance. He can't quite tell if it's the weight of the situation or the alcohol, but he feels very aware of his body and it's capacity for disaster.

With extraordinary caution borne out of whatever self-preservation instinct he still had after almost half a jug of ale, Jaskier makes his way to the edge of the loft and lays a careful hand on the top rung of the railing. If he moves too quickly, the witcher might see him or hear him or, lord knows, feel the air move or something. So he’s slow, deliberate. Part of him sits outside of himself, laughing at the spectacle. Julian Pancratz, slightly shitty bard, nineteen years old and no stranger to the delights of women, seen peeping on the grown-ups having sex. His curious eleven year old self would be delighted.

He smiles as he tilts his head and peers down into the warm circle of lamplight. Geralt is ridiculously meaty in comparison to the two women, it's almost like they’re tending a beached whale. Jaskier's throat automatically whips in a breath to laugh and he catches it just in time, clamping his lips around the sound and holding his breath 'til the image of The White Whale passes.

One woman, and he can't tell the sisters apart now when neither are holding the lamp, is straddling Geralt's thighs, leaning over him so her face is tucked into his neck. The back of her head moves enough to make him think she might be kissing him there, or nibbling on him, or whispering something in his ear. Geralt’s eyes are closed and he’s turned away from her ministrations, the other sister gently clasping his jaw. She comes in to kiss him from where she kneels beside him as Jaskier watches. It's almost sweet, if not for the broad expanse of Geralt's hands — one splayed possessively across the arse of the one on top of him, the other dangerously missing under the skirts of the other.

Jaskier feels a flash of nausea at seeing the person he fancies giving his attention to anyone else, even though it’s a bit futile to consider it ever being him in that position. He can imagine it though, can't he? Geralt, prone and soft on his bed of hay, hands wandering over Jaskier instead of some random farm girl? Clutching  _ his _ arse, snaking inside  _ his _ clothes? Is that how he'd want it?

No. No, he'd want it to be about them, about who they are, not about the act. He'd just as soon curl up against Geralt's side and tell him stories about his home until they both fell asleep, one muscle-bound arm heavy around his shoulders. They could still be clothed, even. He craves intimacy, honesty, getting into the space between Geralt and the world and making a home there. Being his first port of call in a storm. Being the one he comes to at the end of every day. Knowing that in a situation like this, they'd be piling hay in one big bed and shooing away women so they could be alone. He wants his friend, but he also  _ wants _ his friend.

It’s an issue.

Jaskier lets out a sigh and looks down at the scene below him again. He watches the gentle undulation of female hips, the skitter of fine-boned hands across that broad chest, the slight frown flickering on Geralt's brow. Maybe he’s holding in a delighted moan, sparing Jaskier his grunty sex noises. Or maybe, Jaskier can imagine, he’s trying hard to imagine the pawing is someone else. Maybe he’s picturing Jaskier behind his eyelids, thighs bracketing Geralt's thick hips, the teasing touch of soft and hard between them, not quite fully pressed together as Jaskier makes an absolute snack of his throat.

He imagines licking him softly and mouthing sweetly at the tender flesh — things Geralt surely doesn't get enough of in life. Finding the thick cord of muscle in his shoulder and running his teeth along it, pressing into it until Geralt looses a sound from deep in his chest and his hips flex of their own accord, pushing up against him. In his head, Jaskier bites down into that thick muscle, roll his hips ‘til all the gentle hesitation is gone and Geralt flips him over and pins him to their hayloft bed. His mouth and his hands would be everywhere, and their clothes would be gone, and Jaskier's cock would be throbbing with want, just like it is now, trapped under his nightshirt.

Okay, so maybe he does want it like that. 

Fuck.

Jaskier winces at the hearty throb of his unrestrained cock — He’s making an obscene tent in the front of it already. Maybe he's done being coy, respectful. He's already watching three people canoodle with each other, knows at least one of them is certain he's there. Why not hitch up his shirt and take himself in hand? Why not squeeze himself ‘til the urgency eases a little, ‘til he feels more grounded? 

But why not just let loose completely and court Disaster like she deserves? She’s a powerful muse and he's always wanted to publish. So maybe he’ll be reckless and keep watching, and stroke himself to oblivion and come spectacularly through the slats and onto the barn floor below. 

He lets go of the railing, palm falling away from the rough wood.

He could write songs about the trickle of doom creeping into his heart as he gathers the fabric of the nightshirt in his hand, cool air tickling his thighs. He runs a hand over himself as the ravens of portent caw in his head.  _ Bad idea, bad idea. _ He composes a whole book of poetry about the crash and burn of unrequited lust in the single action of tightening his fist. The dismal, distant future seems so secondary to the feel of his own cock, though, and the sight of Geralt knuckle-deep in virgins. This must be why people married young — to keep themselves out of trouble. 

He could've been one of them, he reminds himself as he lets his fist loosen and strokes up, massaging the tip with a flex of his wrist. He could've been at home in Oxenfurt with a wife and a modest house and a boring job teaching music to wealthy children or playing endless waltzes at weddings. Dirges at a funeral. Jigs at an execution. Whatever was appropriate for a baby's birthday, a concerto maybe. He'd have to learn new instruments and be part of a team and he'd hate it.

Being on Geralt's team is okay though. Nothing’s riding on him, unlike Geralt — especially right now. Jaskier lets himself smile at his own joke and keeps his hand moving light and slow, he has time to waste. Looking down proves that. The woman on top has sat up and is plucking nervously at the thin white towel that’s been strapping Geralt down and preserving her innocence. She startles slightly when his cock springs free. Which, looking at it, even from the height of the hayloft, seems fair enough.

There’s a general pause and re-shuffle down on the hay bales. A muttering of instructions, suggestions, maybe a question, and then Geralt's other hand disappears there’s another startled, female sound. A squeak. A breath. A moan, and Jaskier tightens his fist, quickens his stroke, imagines Geralt fingering him, testing him, seeing if he was ready.

He closes his eyes rather than watch the awkward bit that comes next. He remembers his own first time far too well — the fumbling and misguided poking and general horror of being terrible at something he wanted to be good at. It's been enough years since, and enough towns, enough taverns, that he's comfortable crawling in the windows of women without worry. Even those older than him who might know if he’s still awful.

Not the prostitutes though. He wouldn't be able to deflect their professional disinterest from stabbing at his heart. He isn't quite ready to be without the encouragement that comes with affection. And not just in the bedroom. He misses his friends from back home, their constancy, the shared history. Knowing someone loves him enough not to judge. It’s been a year with Geralt and he still doesn’t know if a confession of his feelings would lead to laughter or scorn or disgust, or simply the smack of a door hitting his arse on the way out.

Lord, he's being maudlin and his hand's forgotten what it's doing.

Jaskier clears his mind of sticky history and pointless hypotheticals, thinks of a calming melody, and sets his fist at a matching pace. He concentrates on the warmth of the muscle, the moisture on his fingers, the slide of a calloused thumb along his shaft. He hears the gasps and whispers of not one, but two, women, and the low, pleased growl of a man he knows too well. He feels his insides lift from the bowl of his hips, guts floating light in his chest and the tingling hum of pleasure tickling his skin.

He tilts his head and looks over the side again, eyes finding the swish of a braid first, then the thrust of milk-white hips. Then the witcher's hand, clamped around the woman's shoulder, holding her on top of him as she wriggles inelegantly in his lap. Her sister shows more rhythm, writhing adoringly at his side, her mouth clasped loose around the dome of his shoulder and his fingers no doubt lost deep within her. She whines and pants, and Jaskier can do nothing else but watch her as he strokes himself, losing track of his senses, of time and place and decency.

She goes first, shuddering, uttering the most heavenly cry and sinking bonelessly into the hay. Geralt bends his head to kiss her hair and Jaskier wishes it could be him.

With two of Geralt’s hands free, now, the other sister doesn't have a chance to dally. His touch is almost unnoticeable from above, but for her voice and the spread of her knees. She hastens her movements, grinding with abandon, her hands bracing hard against his chest.

She's even louder, when it comes down to it.

Geralt, though, appears… unmoved.

Jaskier stills his hand.

He debates internally, watching their whole extrication of limbs and appendages. The re-dressing. The awkward inquiries after Geralt’s well-being — did he have a nice time? Jaskier, maliciously, hopes he did not.

“You don't need to prove your worth to a man in any way,” is all he says though. “If he cannot see your worth then he is an idiot.”

Jaskier feels the words in his heart, because what if that's true? What if Geralt does see his worth and merely doesn’t deem it  _ enough _ . A man of so little true merit, as he was. Young and foolish and constantly preoccupied with trivialities. Clothes and tiny cakes and fanciful lyrics and melodies, doing no one any good at all unless they're drunk or bored. What if Geralt could see his worth and Jaskier was the idiot?

He had always hoped his affection remained unreciprocated because Geralt didn't care for the intimate company of men. What if he, in fact, specifically, does not care for the intimate company of Jaskier?

So intent is he on spiraling into his pit of lovelorn despair, that he fails to react to the movement below. The raising of an eyebrow, the tilt of a chin, the tip of Geralt's head, back far enough to meet Jaskier's eyes where he stands by the railing at the edge of the hayloft, looking down to the floor of the barn. With his cock in his fist.

Their eyes meet.

Geralt's gaze drops to Jaskier's hand, then back to the women before him. He sees them out. Slides home the lock this time. Turns. Leans against the tall wooden doors in the lanternless dark. Looks up to where Jaskier is trying to rearrange the folds of his nightshirt without looking like he's rearranging the folds of his nightshirt. And panicking.

“I should've picked you as a voyeur,” Geralt says. Not with judgement, merely curious. Interested.

Jaskier's heart squeezes and flutters in his chest. Would they really just talk about this? Geralt never talked.

“Research,” is all he can think of to say. 

Until his eyes adjust to the starlight again, and he can pick out more than pale hair and the bright white towel, he’ll just have to guess at what the witcher is thinking.

Geralt smiles, Jaskier thinks, but without the lantern, or even their candle, he might be imagining the flash of sharp teeth, the amused huff of his chest. Maybe he knows the witcher's body so well, now, that he can imagine it in the dark, give it action, movement, emotion.

“Did you find that… informative?” Geralt asks, tilting his head to the side. He sounds amused, almost patronising. At least that feels familiar.

“Only marginally.” Jaskier swallows. It seems almost as though Geralt is flirting with him, but even after a year he can't be sure. At the very least, he's talking to Jaskier with what must still be something of a semi. It sets a much more interesting tone than their usual interactions. He  _ almost _ feels bold. And if he can't actually  _ be _ bold, he can at least match Geralt for tone. "I prefer a more hands on approach."

"Your research must be very thorough."

"All the beatings I've received in the name of research have been. Why not the rest?"

"It's amazing you haven't written more songs about your own hand."

"You assume I haven't. I might have a whole catalogue of music you don't know about."

"Will you write about this?"

"That depends."

"Hmm." Geralt pushes off from the door and steps silently across the barn floor, 'til he disappears under the hayloft. Jaskier hears the scrape of dirt on the stairs and the dull thunk of a sword hitting the wood as he fumbles to relight the candle, still sitting on the small stool between their beds. He checks his front and plucks at the fabric in an effort to hide the bulge of his cursedly persistent arousal. Maybe he should get in his bed, hide it, but something is hanging in the air that he can't quite identify and he wants to know what it is, and bed seems so final, he feels like he'll never find out if he moves from where he is.

Geralt appears at the top of the stairs, revealed in stages from the head down, his eyes not lifting to meet Jaskier's 'til he's on the last step. They size him up from the opposite side of the floor, Jaskier wondering if this is about to  _ be _ something or if he'll be disappointed. He has no idea what Geralt is thinking but that white towel definitely isn't hanging flat against his thighs so there's hope.

Hope?

For what? Everything? Convenient fooling around because they're both obviously up for it? A hand-shandy and never a word of it again?

Maybe all it'll buy him is Geralt's agreement to never speak of this. Mutual embarrassment has always bought silence before. But then what? They continue as always, Jaskier pretending not to stare and Geralt maybe pretending not to see, and neither of them admitting they had this happen? A bizarre experience charged with sexual energy and no one willing to put themselves out there and say what it meant?

Jaskier wants very much to be brave. He's almost sure, now, that Geralt won't chuck him out of the barn if he is. He seems amused by Jaskier's situation, rather than disgusted, but maybe he's labouring under the impression that it was all about the girls. That said, Geralt is more than capable of fending off unwanted admirers, if Jaskier is, indeed, unwanted. And even though it seems a bit of a stretch at the moment, Geralt really is a friend to humanity — Jaskier's never heard a prejudiced word cross his lips. To be fair, his words are in short supply a lot of the time.

“What?” is all Geralt says once he's reached his bed.

“I don't know,” is all Jaskier can think of to say. At least it's true.

"Hmm." Geralt puts his sword away, keeping it in arms-reach of the bed.

Jaskier feels his gut sink. The something that was hanging in the air between them seems to have vanished. "Uh. Yes, I should get… Yeah."

Geralt looks up, brow wrinkled in withering contempt. "What's wrong with you?"

"Are we— Should we, maybe talk about this?" Jaskier waves his hand, down toward the pile of violated hay bales on the ground floor.

"No."

"I—" Jaskier takes a deep breath and thinks of something he could say that might mean  _ I love you _ but could just as easily mean  _ what the hell was that? _ “I feel like that, what happened, here… crossed a line. For us. A bit.” He realises his twisting hands are giving away his anxiety and pulls them apart, propping them on his hips.

As Geralt's eyes dart south, he realises his hands have pulled the fabric tight and his dick is giving away all his other feelings and that's even worse.

"You look like you need a moment to yourself," Geralt says, ignoring everything Jaskier's said about them, and crossing lines, which is ironic since he's pretty fucking certain Geralt is suggesting he go have a wank.

"I'm fine," he says, even though it's a lie.

"You want me to turn around?"

'No."

"You want me to watch?"

Jaskier panics, his pulse thick in his throat. "What? No!" he bumbles, even though that's a lie too.

Geralt smiles, toothy and slightly vicious. "There. It's less of a stretch to imagine you as an exhibitionist."

"I am not—"

"Jaskier,' he growls, and it's enough to make a grown man quiver with restrained lust. "You're an attention whore. Why else do you follow me around but to be looked at?"

"Geralt," he says, clinging to the inaccuracy like a lifeline. This, at least, he can concentrate on. "You give me the least attention out of everyone on the planet, even if we're the only actual people for miles."

"Well. Tonight you have it all." He waves his hand and sits down, waiting, finding his half-drunk cup of ale and downing it in one. "As you were."

"I'm not having a wank in front of you."

"You just watched me. This is fair, is it not?"

"I watched you accidentally. There were women all over you. I wasn't just staring at you while you… you know."

"You were staring. And touching yourself. I could smell you from down there. You violate my privacy, I violate yours."

"Oh.” Jaskier flailed about for something and couldn’t even decide what it might be that would save him. “Yes, well. You make a good point."

"So." Geralt pours himself another ale, the scent of hops swirling, light and fresh, in the air between them. "Go on."

Jaskier can't tell quite what the feeling in his chest is. He might be having a heart attack. It hurts a bit, and he feels sort of sick, but his dick is also having a really good go at being the neediest part of his body so he doesn't really know what to do. He should probably sit down.

Though if he tries to move he might find that his knees don't work anymore either.

So he does what he’s told, exactly where he stands, and for his future self, the one who will look back on this and want to remember being brave, he keeps his eyes on Geralt. He lets them wander over his body, not stopping himself from studying every vibrant detail, taking in everything he can as he keeps his hand moving.

He doesn’t even know if Geralt sees him, he’s back to sipping his ale, mouth wet and throat working as he swallows. Jaskier gets reckless. He bunches the nightshirt at his waist, left hand clutched in the fabric, squeezing hard. He allows every gasp, every tiny moan, and wonders if they penetrate the witcher’s thick skull. 

It’s not 'til he’s relaxed into it, shoulders loose, that he notices the state of the towel. While it hadn’t sat flat before, it's noticeably straining now. The outline of a nice big cock is too good to pass up and Jaskier lets his gaze linger there, watching for every throb and twitch, delighting in every rising millimeter ‘til he’s in danger of going too far. He’d never got around to finding a hanky. Maybe finishing wasn’t meant to be part of the deal.

“Maybe I should stop,” he says, slowing his hand. “Before… well. You know.”

“Why?”

“I didn’t watch you finish.” Jaskier slows his hand. “I don’t know what we’re doing. Maybe you don’t want to bear witness to the unsavoury part.”

"I’ve never found the taste unsavoury." Geralt shrugs slightly, an infinitesimal lift of one shoulder. "At least, not last I checked."

"Last you checked…"

"I'm not offering, Jaskier. Take care of yourself."

"Are you…” Jaskier sends up a prayer that he isn’t about to ruin this, “going to take care of  _ your _ self?"

"Hmm…" Geralt seems to weigh his options before placing his cup down and slipping a hand under his towel. Jaskier watches his face shift from tension to pleasure, his golden eyes fluttering shut and his shoulders sinking lower. 

He watches the movement, slow and rhythmic, matches his own fist to the bunching of the towel, imagines it's Geralt he's touching and not himself. Every moment feels endless, fleeting seconds so full they have the weight of long days, and he loses himself in the haze of pleasured disbelief that this is all happening to him.

After a time, a soft hum comes from the witcher, a sound tied to the flex of thick muscles, thighs stiffening and spreading wider. The raw truth of it pulls a strangled gasp from Jaskier's throat. He feels a rush of fresh arousal flood his veins and it makes him bold, reckless.

"Is it fair if I can't actually see you under the towel?" he says, and his voice shakes.

Geralt opens his eyes and tilts his head to look Jaskier in the eye. "Was it fair I couldn't see you through the railing?"

"You were  _ watching _ me?"

"You were watching  _ me _ . You’ve _been_ watching me."

"I—" Jaskier cuts himself off. Geralt seems, if not  _ eager _ , at least unbothered by… whatever this is. "You knew?"

If he did, and he let it happen, there might be something there to hope for. A future where eagerness is a possibility. A future where Jaskier might be the lucky one spread across his witcher’s lap. Where he might be the one buried in the softness of his neck, whispering nonsense in his ear. Where Geralt might spend his time finding ways to make  _ Jaskier _ gasp and sigh and melt in his arms. His mind conjures memories and fantasies and merges them into a hundred frantic images of them pressed together, sweaty and tangled and unstoppable, pleasure rising from the depths of his hope.

He feels the flutter of his own eagerness and it’s so primal, so filthy and desperate, that the wild peak of his pleasure is suddenly approaching with startling speed and there’s nothing to be done to stop it.

In amongst all of this, Geralt smiles up at him, flexing his hips into the empty air. He's all teeth and skin and hidden treasures. The sight of him there, his head tilted back, neck rough with stubble and bared fearlessly to the night with his scarred knees spread wide and forearm tense, working a relentless rhythm under the thin cover of the towel… It's too much. "You're not," he lets out a sound from his throat, debauched, "as subtle as you think you are, Jaskier."

_ Fuck _ . The sound of his name in Geralt’s mouth is the last thing that registers before Jaskier’s convulsing in his own hand and spurting helplessly onto the floor, the hay, one thin stripe finding the skin of Geralt’s leg and sliding, thick and shining, through the hair 'til it drips into the shadows and out of sight.

He finds himself folding into a pile on the floor, knees too weak to hold him up anymore. He barely feels the wood beneath him, barely feels anything at all but his scrambled insides, whirling in bliss and confusion and hope for more.

A low, needy growl brings his attention to the fore and he's just in time to watch a sharp upward thrust as Geralt's hips seek the warmth of another body one last time, and then the hypnotic spread of wetness, seeping outward across the towel from it's tented peak. He sees the shaking wrist wring one last twitch out of every muscle, and the final, sated slump as Geralt lets himself relax. 

It’s quiet except for their breathing. The weight of possibility hangs over them, the potential. Every strand of every possibility that could come from this sordid affair. So many maybes. It’s been a weird night, this one. Wrapped in thin cotton and curiosity, excellent fodder for Jaskier's lyrical muse. But then he looks up and catches Geralt's gaze on him, soft and curious, and he thinks he might just keep this one to himself.

  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
